


Glass Houses

by monochromatic



Series: Tumblr Challenge: Stridercest Edition [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Guardiancest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monochromatic/pseuds/monochromatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A critically acclaimed director and a big-name porn star walk into a bar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass Houses

**Author's Note:**

> day two of nsfw challenge: naked kisses
> 
> I almost wish I'd just done kisses and cuddling together because apparently writing softcore anything is a struggle for me.

 Dave envies him a little. Initially, he'd dismissed him on the principal that he was obviously one of those physically dominant, gym-rat douchebags, but as is so often the case with people, this man was hardly as simple, and refused to be dismissed.

He walks his fingers up Dave's side. Dave clutches them, pushes away. 

“What's the matter, babe?” Bro is smirking wickedly; by some inexplicable, nasty trick, he seems to know all of Dave's ticklish spots. 

“Nothing.” His eyes pause, staring at the way Bro's hair sticks out at odd angles, mostly from where Dave ran his fingers through it. “We should do this at your place once in a while.”

“Ha,” he turns on his side. The Pacific sunset is nuclear, its light searing through the windows to kiss Bro's tan skin, his platinum hair. “Why, so you can creep out when you think I'm not looking? Nah.”

Dave could deny the accusation – it's not like he's under oath. Instead, he turns over, rests in the embrace of too many pillows. He doesn't complain when a strong arm snags around his middle and pulls him close. Their bodies line up like parallel planes: Dave's slim hips fit into Bro's big hands almost-perfect or not-quite-right, depending on one's perspective. Bro buries himself in Dave's neck, kissing him wetly, humming against his skin. 

“You smell so fucking good,” he murmurs under Dave's ear, “love that expensive cologne.”

With a snort, Dave replies, “You should let me buy you some.”

Bro's laugh is deep and soft, emanating out of his chest. “Nah, if I wanted it, I'd buy it myself; I just like the cheap shit.”

“You _are_ cheap shit.” 

“Oh sweetheart,” he nibbles along Dave's fine, elegant jaw, “I may be easy, but I am not cheap.”

A jaded sigh is all he offers in retribution. Besides, it's true in the strictest sense: Bro makes almost as much money per quarter as Dave does, and more films in a month than Dave can hope to achieve in five years. Such is the dichotomy between internationally acclaimed director and infamous porn star.

Most couples celebrate exclusivity with a dinner date, or perhaps a heated exchange under the stars. Dave and Bro's testament to their couple status lies on the coffee table in the living room: a cover of some slimy garbage tabloid, heralded in garish, boldface type. Their outings had been mentioned in other, less prominent spreads, chronicled in a thousand shitty photographs of the two men sharing lunch; prowling Rodeo in the middle of the afternoon; entering and eventually leaving night clubs – always together. But for as often as opposite-sexed celebrity friends cannot go out without enduring speculation, two attractive dudes could apparently spend extensive time together and the reaction would consistently be reduced to a dry, sanitized nod at bromance.

_Sanitize this, assholes_ , Dave often thought, smug, whenever he passed their cover on the coffee table.

Perhaps it was his own doing, or perhaps it was simply the rigid societal structure, still clinging to life even in its twilight years, but Dave had more often than not been pinned unceremoniously – and unconsentingly – to a slew of young, classically pretty Manic Pixies. 

Or, in a pinch, Rose.

The magazines and the gossip blogs did not seem as amused that, rather than pair himself with some equally strange and exceedingly comely little starlet, Dave Strider preferred the company of not only a man, but a man who had assumed his name for – presumably – the purpose of relative anonymity. Dave and 'Bro' Strider. It was like their own personal derisive sneer at Prop 8. 

Although, it might be a little less weird, if they didn't look so much alike.

The sun is almost totally sunken beneath the horizon, a stunning burst of tangerine over the calm ocean. The dusky fulgor softens Bro's angles, throwing him into shadow. His lips are smooth as they slide against Dave's, the interruption of the metal stud in his tongue still novel after all this time. Their legs – Dave's long and wiry, Bro's athletic in the extreme – are tangled up, feet rubbing at feet, knees bumping into one another. They rub noses and clack teeth and suck on each other's tongues. Dave's limbs are still numb with post-coital lethargy, but he can feel Bro rearing up for an encore. 

Everything about Bro is heavy: heavy jaw, heavy shoulders, heavy legs, heavy cock. Nothing about him is delicate. Nothing about him is refined. He is blunt and raw and that's what Dave likes about him. If someone were to ask Dave what he sees in Bro Strider – and surely, it won't be long now – the answer would simply be, “He's rude, an asshole in the highest degree.” He's honest, though. He's honest with Dave, who lives in an alien world where even the truth is subjective, depending on who your editor is.

“I have to work,” Dave says, trying and failing to free himself. Bro smirks, shaking his head. He does not comply, caging Dave in between his arms, sucking a hickey onto his neck where he knows it will get some press time. “I have to work,” Dave tries again, to no avail. The scene repeats itself, take after take, until finally Bro pushes him onto his back, shoves his face against Dave's belly and blows hot air against it in a loud, merciless raspberry until Dave curls into himself like a pillbug, giving an undignified squeal, clasping Bro even closer.

Laughing, Bro retreats to watch him try and catch his breath. 

“Okay,” he says, “go write your dumb, ironic movie.”

“It's – nuanced,” Dave heaves. “You wouldn't – understand.”

“It's bullshit, is what it is.”

“But I know it's bullshit,” he argues. “And it knows it's bullshit.”

“Your audience doesn't,” Bro points out.

“Some do, some don't,” he shrugs. “That's sort of the joke.” He rolls off the bed and stumbles into a soft bathrobe, preens in the mirror.

“Mind if I stay?”

This has been tender ground, Bro staying the whole night. Usually he disappears before daybreak – in the beginning, Dave sometimes wondered if perhaps he was just having incredibly vivid wet dreams. And neither of them has attempted to set any parameters. But for some reason, nine out of ten times, Bro uses Dave's creative space to segue into borrowing his shower and slipping out the door.

Dave, for his part, has remained ambivalent.

“Sure, keep the bed warm for me,” he says. 

Naked and bathed in the rich, warm glow of the declining sun, he wrangles Dave in for another long, sloppy kiss. He promises not to bother Dave while he works, and Dave promises he won't mind if he does it anyway.

While revising his night's work, Dave notices that the shower is going. He pauses, immersed in the stillness of his study, but quickly returns to the script. He trusts that when he closes up for the evening, Bro will still be in his bed, just cleaner and docile with sleep.


End file.
